They were a merry party, casting aside their cares and years, and harking back to joyous7 boyhood and girlhood once more. James had a family of rosy8 lads and lasses; Margaret brought her two blue-eyed little girls; Ralph's dark, clever-looking son accompanied him, and Malcolm brought his, a young man with a resolute9 face, in which there was less of boyishness than in his father's, and the eyes of a keen, perhaps a hard bargainer. The two cousins were the same age to a day, and it was a family joke among the Monroes that the stork10 must have mixed the babies, since Ralph's son was like Malcolm in face and brain, while Malcolm's boy was a second edition of his uncle Ralph.
To crown all, Aunt Isabel came, too—a talkative, clever, shrewd old lady, as young at eighty-five as she had been at thirty, thinking the Monroe stock the best in the world, and beamingly proud of her nephews and nieces, who had gone out from this humble11, little farm to destinies of such brilliance12 and influence in the world beyond.
I have forgotten Robert. Robert Monroe was apt to be forgotten. Although he was the oldest of the family, White Sands people, in naming over the various members of the Monroe family, would add, "and Robert," in a tone of surprise over the remembrance of his existence.
He lived on a poor, sandy little farm down by the shore, but he had come up to James' place on the evening when the guests arrived; they had all greeted him warmly and joyously13, and then did not think about him again in their laughter and conversation. Robert sat back in a corner and listened with a smile, but he never spoke14. Afterwards he had slipped noiselessly away and gone home, and nobody noticed his going. They were all gayly busy recalling what had happened in the old times and telling what had happened in the new.
Edith recounted the successes of her concert tours; Malcolm expatiated15 proudly on his plans for developing his beloved college; Ralph described the country through which his new railroad ran, and the difficulties he had had to overcome in connection with it. James, aside, discussed his orchard16 and his crops with Margaret, who had not been long enough away from the farm to lose touch with its interests. Aunt Isabel knitted and smiled complacently17 on all, talking now with one, now with the other, secretly quite proud of herself that she, an old woman of eighty-five, who had seldom been out of White Sands in her life, could discuss high finance with Ralph, and higher education with Malcolm, and hold her own with James in an argument on drainage.
The White Sands school teacher, an arch-eyed, red-mouthed bit a girl—a Bell from Avonlea—who boarded with the James Monroes, amused herself with the boys. All were enjoying themselves hugely, so it is not to be wondered at that they did not miss Robert, who had gone home early because his old housekeeper18 was nervous if left alone at night.
He came again the next afternoon. From James, in the barnyard, he learned that Malcolm and Ralph had driven to the harbor, that Margaret and Mrs. James had gone to call on friends in Avonlea, and that Edith was walking somewhere in the woods on the hill. There was nobody in the house except Aunt Isabel and the teacher.
"You'd better wait and stay the evening," said James, indifferently. "They'll all be back soon."
Robert went across the yard and sat down on the rustic19 bench in the angle of the front porch. It was a fine December evening, as mild as autumn; there had been no snow, and the long fields, sloping down from the homestead, were brown and mellow20. A weird21, dreamy stillness had fallen upon the purple earth, the windless woods, the rain of the valleys, the sere22 meadows. Nature seemed to have folded satisfied hands to rest, knowing that her long, wintry slumber23 was coming upon her. Out to sea, a dull, red sunset faded out into somber24 clouds, and the ceaseless voice of many waters came up from the tawny25 shore.
Robert rested his chin on his hand and looked across the vales and hills, where the feathery gray of leafless hardwoods was mingled26 with the sturdy, unfailing green of the conebearers. He was a tall, bent27 man, with thin, gray hair, a lined face, and deeply-set, gentle brown eyes—the eyes of one who, looking through pain, sees rapture28 beyond.
He felt very happy. He loved his family clannishly29, and he was rejoiced that they were all again near to him. He was proud of their success and fame. He was glad that James had prospered30 so well of late years. There was no canker of envy or discontent in his soul.
He heard absently indistinct voices at the open hall window above the porch, where Aunt Isabel was talking to Kathleen Bell. Presently Aunt Isabel moved nearer to the window, and her words came down to Robert with startling clearness.
"Yes, I can assure you, Miss Bell, that I'm real proud of my nephews and nieces. They're a smart family. They've almost all done well, and they hadn't any of them much to begin with. Ralph had absolutely nothing and to-day he is a millionaire. Their father met with so many losses, what with his ill-health and the bank failing, that he couldn't help them any. But they've all succeeded, except poor Robert—and I must admit that he's a total failure."
"Oh, no, no," said the little teacher deprecatingly.
"A total failure!" Aunt Isabel repeated her words emphatically. She was not going to be contradicted by anybody, least of all a Bell from Avonlea. "He has been a failure since the time he was born. He is the first Monroe to disgrace the old stock that way. I'm sure his brothers and sisters must be dreadfully ashamed of him. He has lived sixty years and he hasn't done a thing worth while. He can't even make his farm pay. If he's kept out of debt it's as much as he's ever managed to do."
"Some men can't even do that," murmured the little school teacher. She was really so much in awe32 of this imperious, clever old Aunt Isabel that it was positive heroism33 on her part to venture even this faint protest.
"More is expected of a Monroe," said Aunt Isabel majestically34. "Robert Monroe is a failure, and that is the only name for him."
Robert Monroe stood up below the window in a dizzy, uncertain fashion. Aunt Isabel had been speaking of him! He, Robert, was a failure, a disgrace to his blood, of whom his nearest and dearest were ashamed! Yes, it was true; he had never realized it before; he had known that he could never win power or accumulate riches, but he had not thought that mattered much. Now, through Aunt Isabel's scornful eyes, he saw himself as the world saw him—as his brothers and sisters must see him. THERE lay the sting. What the world thought of him did not matter; but that his own should think him a failure and disgrace was agony. He moaned as he started to walk across the yard, only anxious to hide his pain and shame away from all human sight, and in his eyes was the look of a gentle animal which had been stricken by a cruel and unexpected blow.
Edith Monroe, who, unaware35 of Robert's proximity36, had been standing37 on the other side of the porch, saw that look, as he hurried past her, unseeing. A moment before her dark eyes had been flashing with anger at Aunt Isabel's words; now the anger was drowned in a sudden rush of tears.
She took a quick step after Robert, but checked the impulse. Not then—and not by her alone—could that deadly hurt be healed. Nay38, more, Robert must never suspect that she knew of any hurt. She stood and watched him through her tears as he went away across the low-lying shore fields to hide his broken heart under his own humble roof. She yearned39 to hurry after him and comfort him, but she knew that comfort was not what Robert needed now. Justice, and justice only, could pluck out the sting, which otherwise must rankle40 to the death.
Ralph and Malcolm were driving into the yard. Edith went over to them.
"Boys," she said resolutely41, "I want to have a talk with you."
The Christmas dinner at the old homestead was a merry one. Mrs. James spread a feast that was fit for the halls of Lucullus. Laughter, jest, and repartee42 flew from lip to lip. Nobody appeared to notice that Robert ate little, said nothing, and sat with his form shrinking in his shabby "best" suit, his gray head bent even lower than usual, as if desirous of avoiding all observation. When the others spoke to him he answered deprecatingly, and shrank still further into himself.
Finally all had eaten all they could, and the remainder of the plum pudding was carried out. Robert gave a low sigh of relief. It was almost over. Soon he would be able to escape and hide himself and his shame away from the mirthful eyes of these men and women who had earned the right to laugh at the world in which their success gave them power and influence. He—he—only—was a failure.
He wondered impatiently why Mrs. James did not rise. Mrs. James merely leaned comfortably back in her chair, with the righteous expression of one who has done her duty by her fellow creatures' palates, and looked at Malcolm.
Malcolm rose in his place. Silence fell on the company; everybody looked suddenly alert and expectant, except Robert. He still sat with bowed head, wrapped in his own bitterness.
"I have been told that I must lead off," said Malcolm, "because I am supposed to possess the gift of gab43. But, if I do, I am not going to use it for any rhetorical effect to-day. Simple, earnest words must express the deepest feelings of the heart in doing justice to its own. Brothers and sisters, we meet to-day under our own roof-tree, surrounded by the benedictions44 of the past years. Perhaps invisible guests are here—the spirits of those who founded this home and whose work on earth has long been finished. It is not amiss to hope that this is so and our family circle made indeed complete. To each one of us who are here in visible bodily presence some measure of success has fallen; but only one of us has been supremely46 successful in the only things that really count—the things that count for eternity47 as well as time—sympathy and unselfishness and self-sacrifice.
"I shall tell you my own story for the benefit of those who have not heard it. When I was a lad of sixteen I started to work out my own education. Some of you will remember that old Mr. Blair of Avonlea offered me a place in his store for the summer, at wages which would go far towards paying my expenses at the country academy the next winter. I went to work, eager and hopeful. All summer I tried to do my faithful best for my employer. In September the blow fell. A sum of money was missing from Mr. Blair's till. I was suspected and discharged in disgrace. All my neighbors believed me guilty; even some of my own family looked upon me with suspicion—nor could I blame them, for the circumstantial evidence was strongly against me."
Ralph and James looked ashamed; Edith and Margaret, who had not been born at the time referred to, lifted their faces innocently. Robert did not move or glance up. He hardly seemed to be listening.
"I was crushed in an agony of shame and despair," continued Malcolm. "I believed my career was ruined. I was bent on casting all my ambitions behind me, and going west to some place where nobody knew me or my disgrace. But there was one person who believed in my innocence49, who said to me, 'You shall not give up—you shall not behave as if you were guilty. You are innocent, and in time your innocence will be proved. Meanwhile show yourself a man. You have nearly enough to pay your way next winter at the Academy. I have a little I can give to help you out. Don't give in—never give in when you have done no wrong.'
"I listened and took his advice. I went to the Academy. My story was there as soon as I was, and I found myself sneered50 at and shunned51. Many a time I would have given up in despair, had it not been for the encouragement of my counselor52. He furnished the backbone53 for me. I was determined54 that his belief in me should be justified55. I studied hard and came out at the head of my class. Then there seemed to be no chance of my earning any more money that summer. But a farmer at Newbridge, who cared nothing about the character of his help, if he could get the work out of them, offered to hire me. The prospect56 was distasteful but, urged by the man who believed in me, I took the place and endured the hardships. Another winter of lonely work passed at the Academy. I won the Farrell Scholarship the last year it was offered, and that meant an Arts course for me. I went to Redmond College. My story was not openly known there, but something of it got abroad, enough to taint57 my life there also with its suspicion. But the year I graduated, Mr. Blair's nephew, who, as you know, was the real culprit, confessed his guilt48, and I was cleared before the world. Since then my career has been what is called a brilliant one. But"—Malcolm turned and laid his hand on Robert's thin shoulder—"all of my success I owe to my brother Robert. It is his success—not mine—and here to-day, since we have agreed to say what is too often left to be said over a coffin58 lid, I thank him for all he did for me, and tell him that there is nothing I am more proud of and thankful for than such a brother."
Robert had looked up at last, amazed, bewildered, incredulous. His face crimsoned60 as Malcolm sat down. But now Ralph was getting up.
"I am no orator61 as Malcolm is," he quoted gayly, "but I've got a story to tell, too, which only one of you knows. Forty years ago, when I started in life as a business man, money wasn't so plentiful62 with me as it may be to-day. And I needed it badly. A chance came my way to make a pile of it. It wasn't a clean chance. It was a dirty chance. It looked square on the surface; but, underneath63, it meant trickery and roguery. I hadn't enough perception to see that, though—I was fool enough to think it was all right. I told Robert what I meant to do. And Robert saw clear through the outward sham31 to the real, hideous64 thing underneath. He showed me what it meant and he gave me a preachment about a few Monroe Traditions of truth and honor. I saw what I had been about to do as he saw it—as all good men and true must see it. And I vowed65 then and there that I'd never go into anything that I wasn't sure was fair and square and clean through and through. I've kept that vow66. I am a rich man, and not a dollar of my money is 'tainted67' money. But I didn't make it. Robert really made every cent of my money. If it hadn't been for him I'd have been a poor man to-day, or behind prison bars, as are the other men who went into that deal when I backed out. I've got a son here. I hope he'll be as clever as his Uncle Malcolm; but I hope, still more earnestly, that he'll be as good and honorable a man as his Uncle Robert."
By this time Robert's head was bent again, and his face buried in his hands.
"My turn next," said James. "I haven't much to say—only this. After mother died I took typhoid fever. Here I was with no one to wait on me. Robert came and nursed me. He was the most faithful, tender, gentle nurse ever a man had. The doctor said Robert saved my life. I don't suppose any of the rest of us here can say we have saved a life."
Edith wiped away her tears and sprang up impulsively68.
"Years ago," she said, "there was a poor, ambitious girl who had a voice. She wanted a musical education and her only apparent chance of obtaining it was to get a teacher's certificate and earn money enough to have her voice trained. She studied hard, but her brains, in mathematics at least, weren't as good as her voice, and the time was short. She failed. She was lost in disappointment and despair, for that was the last year in which it was possible to obtain a teacher's certificate without attending Queen's Academy, and she could not afford that. Then her oldest brother came to her and told her he could spare enough money to send her to the conservatory69 of music in Halifax for a year. He made her take it. She never knew till long afterwards that he had sold the beautiful horse which he loved like a human creature, to get the money. She went to the Halifax conservatory. She won a musical scholarship. She has had a happy life and a successful career. And she owes it all to her brother Robert—"
But Edith could go no further. Her voice failed her and she sat down in tears. Margaret did not try to stand up.
"I was only five when my mother died," she sobbed70. "Robert was both father and mother to me. Never had child or girl so wise and loving a guardian71 as he was to me. I have never forgotten the lessons he taught me. Whatever there is of good in my life or character I owe to him. I was often headstrong and willful, but he never lost patience with me. I owe everything to Robert."
"I have something to say, too," she said resolutely. "You have spoken for yourselves. I speak for the people of White Sands. There is a man in this settlement whom everybody loves. I shall tell you some of the things he has done."
"Last fall, in an October storm, the harbor lighthouse flew a flag of distress72. Only one man was brave enough to face the danger of sailing to the lighthouse to find out what the trouble was. That was Robert Monroe. He found the keeper alone with a broken leg; and he sailed back and made—yes, MADE the unwilling73 and terrified doctor go with him to the lighthouse. I saw him when he told the doctor he must go; and I tell you that no man living could have set his will against Robert Monroe's at that moment.
"Four years ago old Sarah Cooper was to be taken to the poorhouse. She was broken-hearted. One man took the poor, bed-ridden, fretful old creature into his home, paid for medical attendance, and waited on her himself, when his housekeeper couldn't endure her tantrums and temper. Sarah Cooper died two years afterwards, and her latest breath was a benediction45 on Robert Monroe—the best man God ever made.
"Eight years ago Jack74 Blewitt wanted a place. Nobody would hire him, because his father was in the penitentiary75, and some people thought Jack ought to be there, too. Robert Monroe hired him—and helped him, and kept him straight, and got him started right—and Jack Blewitt is a hard-working, respected young man to-day, with every prospect of a useful and honorable life. There is hardly a man, woman, or child in White Sands who doesn't owe something to Robert Monroe!"
As Kathleen Bell sat down, Malcolm sprang up and held out his hands.
Everybody stood up and joined hands, but one did not sing. Robert Monroe stood erect77, with a great radiance on his face and in his eyes. His reproach had been taken away; he was crowned among his kindred with the beauty and blessing78 of sacred yesterdays.
When the singing ceased Malcolm's stern-faced son reached over and shook Robert's hands.
"I guess," said Aunt Isabel, aside to the little school teacher, as she wiped the tears from her keen old eyes, "that there's a kind of failure that's the best success."
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1
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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stork
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| n.鹳 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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expatiated
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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mingled
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bent
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rapture
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clannishly
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| adv.派系地，团结地 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sham
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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heroism
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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unaware
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proximity
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standing
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rankle
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| v.（怨恨，失望等）难以释怀 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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gab
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| v.空谈，唠叨，瞎扯；n.饶舌，多嘴，爱说话 | |
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benedictions
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| n.祝福( benediction的名词复数 )；（礼拜结束时的）赐福祈祷；恩赐；（大写）（罗马天主教）祈求上帝赐福的仪式 | |
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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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counselor
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| n.顾问，法律顾问 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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59
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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penitentiary
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| n.感化院；监狱 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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